You stood still at the center of it, a pin in a storm. The silk of your jacket—midnight blue, cut sharp as a blade—settled perfectly over your shoulders.

Beyond the velvet curtain, the roar of a crowd. Then the music dropped. A bass so deep it vibrated in your ribs.

The show director, a frantic man with a headset, gave you a shove. You're up. Go, go, go!

You stepped out into the light. The runway stretched before you like a river of glass, lined on both sides with faces—photographers, editors, idols.

And somewhere in the front row, a group of eight boys went still.